


Expose & Release

by Sway



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1949739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sway/pseuds/Sway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dream, Arthur gets shot in the head but doesn’t die. When he wakes up, he’s not the man Eames used to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expose & Release

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. Nolan made them up, I just play with them. The title is from a Creed song.

  
**Expose & Release**  
  
The chance of surviving a shot to head and surviving it without permanent brain damage was less than 0.5%. Eames had looked it up.  
  
Diddling on his cell phone had been the only thing keeping him same while pacing back and forth in the hospital waiting room.  
  
Of course, the probability only applied to actual bullets fired from actual guns. None of the Google results said something about shot fired in dreamscape.  
  
***  
  
The case had gone south when the mark's projections had started shooting at them. The guy they were supposed to extract from was an ego-shooter enthusiast but, apparently, it didn't give his subconscious better marksmanship.  
  
Instead of waking Arthur up, the bullet in his head hadn't killed him in the dream.  
  
With all the hassle, fighting off the projections while keeping the dream intact, nobody had noticed the young man jerking and twitching on the floor, sputtering blood thanks to another gushing wound in his chest.  
  
The hole in his head looked nothing more like a bloody thumbprint if it weren't for a unhealthily protruding piece of bone.  
  
"What's wrong with him? Why didn't he wake up?" Cobb didn't even look at him as he secured the area around them, gun in hand.  
  
Eames knelt down by Arthur's side, placing two fingers below his jaw to feel his pulse. "Because he isn't dead. The bullet must have missed his brain."  
  
"What? What are the chances?"  
  
"I'm sure Arthur could tell you." Eames glanced over his shoulder to make sure Cobb still had their backs, then he focused on the still writhing young man at his side. "Arthur, can you hear me?"  
  
Arthur did turn his head, eyes wild, unfocused and unseeing. His hand grasped at empty air before his fingers found Eames' arm. He opened his mouth but instead of words, only more blood bubbled up from his throat.  
  
"Alright, alright." Eames shushed him, holding him down with one hand while the other reached for his own weapon. "I'm sorry, darlin'."  
  
Averting Arthur's fleeting gaze, Eames placed the muzzle under this chin and pulled the trigger.  
  
He hated doing this, even though he knew it wasn't real and probably a salvation for Arthur.  
  
*  
  
They came out of the dream about a real-time minute later to a rather bizarre setting.  
  
The mark was still asleep with Ariadne watching his vitals, and Yusuf standing with his hands raised in defense back against one wall of the hotel suite. Arthur stood between them, holding a brass candle stick like a club, eyes wide with terror.  
  
"What happened?" Cobb wanted to know, rising from his chair, unhooking the IV from his wrist.  
  
"I have no idea. He woke up and panicked," Ariadne replied. "This guy's about to wake up as well."  
  
"Arthur." Eames took a careful step forward, avoiding the swing of Arthur's makeshift weapon as he turned around. "Arthur, it's alright. The dream got messy. You're confused, is all."  
  
"What dream?" Arthur spat at him. "Who are you people?"  
  
Then he gracelessly passed out, of all things, hitting his head on the coffee table.  
  
***  
  
"Mr. Reynolds?"  
  
He didn't react to his false identity until the doctor approached him. "Yes?"  
  
"We've taken care of your...," the doctor, who couldn't be much older than Eames himself, looked down at his clipboard. "Husband down to the MRI now to check for any brain damage. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?"  
  
Eames shifted from one leg to the other. "Sure."  
  
"There's also some forms you need to fill out but that can wait." The doctor motioned him to take a seat. "Now, can you tell me what happened?"  
  
Eames hesitated for a moment. While he had volunteered to take Arthur to the hospital, he hadn't thought about coming with a good cover story. Usually, they avoided seeing regular doctors, but even in their line of work, a concussion wasn't something to take lightly.  
  
"Nothing much, actually," Eames lied. "We were just talking and suddenly he collapsed and hit his head on the coffee table. When he came to, he couldn't remember who I was. Then he passed out again." He could only hope the doctor would buy that story. At least, it was close enough to the truth without actually revealing too much.  
  
The physician scribbled away on his notepad, asking more questions about previous fainting spells and pre-existing conditions.  
  
Eames answered him to his best knowledge. Which, much to his dismay, didn't go very far. He couldn't deny the sting of hurt when he realized how little he actually knew about Arthur.  
  
"Ah, the results of the MRI are ready." The doctor rose as his beeper went off. "Would you come with me, please?"  
  
The examination room looked nothing like in the TV shows. Everything was white and sterile and smelled of disinfectant.  
  
As soon as Eames entered the room, he noticed the change in Arthur.  
  
He was just getting dressed but instead of tugging everything into place, he left this shirt outside his waistband, not buttoning it up all the way. When he looked at the tie, he scoffed, then bundled it up and stashed it into his pocket. All of which Arthur would never do.  
  
Something about his posture was off as well. His usually straightened shoulders were now hunched, his body slightly slumped as he leaned against the examination table.  
  
"So, the MRI came up clean. It shows no damage but you do have a slight concussion. I can't explain what caused the initial fainting spell. If it hasn't happened before, it might be nothing more than dehydration. Your husband tells me you didn't eat anything all day, so that might be the cause."  
  
At the revelation for their supposed relation, Arthur looked at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief.  
  
"What about the memory loss?" Eames asked, shoving his hands deeper into pockets, fingers closing around his totem for reassurance.  
  
"As far as I can tell, his semantic and procedural memory are unaffected as he can walk and talk. However, the hit on the head seems to have affected his episodic memory. Meaning, he can't remember who he is or anything he ever did."  
  
Eames almost didn't dare to ask the next question. "Is it permanent?"  
  
The doctor shrugged. "Given that it's only a mild concussion, I doubt it. But with these things, you can never be sure. He might wake up tomorrow and remember everything. It might take a week or even months." He paused. "Or, he might never regain his full memory. There is no way to tell for certain."  
  
Eames looked at Arthur. While he himself felt sick at the news, Arthur didn't seem to be the least bit bothered by the news. Which was even more worrying.  
  
"In any case," the doctor continued. "I'd like to keep him here overnight for observation."  
  
"I'm not staying here." It was the first time Eames heard Arthur say after he had collapsed, ans something about his accent didn't seem right. It was still his voice, sure, but it didn't sound like him.  
  
"Well, I can't make you stay, but you'll have to sign that you're leaving against medical advice."  
  
"Whatever, I just want to get out of here."  
  
There it was again, that lilt in his voice, the way he slurred the words. And Eames had never heard him say 'whatever' in that brat-y tone before.  
  
*  
  
The signature Arthur had scribbled on the form looked as if a sixth grader had been asked to sign his name. It looked especially weird when wrote 'Reynolds' as his false last name. Of course, it only looked strange to Eames.  
  
They didn't speak until they were in the car and on their way to Arthur's apartment.  
  
Arthur had slumped into the passenger seat, one knee against the dashboard, the elbow against the door and his chin resting on his hand. He looked out the window, jaw clenched.  
  
"You're not my husband," Arthur suddenly stated matter-of-factly.  
  
"How did you figure?" Eames looked at him from the corner of his eyes.  
  
At the question, Arthur held up his hand, wriggling his fingers. "No ring."  
  
"Right." Eames hand tightened around the steering wheel. "What if I told you you aren't the type for jewelery?"  
  
Arthur shook his head. He turned to him, looking him up and down. "Hm, no. I don't think I'd be married to guy like you."  
  
Eames sucked in a breath at the words. It was the nonchalance Arthur with which had said them with that stung the most. "Well, that's too bad," he said, an audible quiver in his voice. "Because I am, in fact, your boyfriend. Telling the doctors we're married made the paperwork easier."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Hm."  
  
"We also work together. The people you tried to attack with a candlestick? That's our team," Eames explained, still trying to ignore the pang of hurt.  
  
"What do we do?"  
  
Eames opened his mouth, then closed it again. What was he supposed to tell him? Yes, he could and probably should tell him the truth but for some reason, he knew Arthur wouldn't believe him. He hadn't believed it himself when he had first heard about it. Given his current state, it was probably better to spare the details for later.  
  
"We, uhm.. we work in a dream lab." Eames cringed at his own words but it was the first thing on his mind that wasn't too far from the truth.  
  
"That sounds dull," Arthur replied, lip curling into a sneer. Then he turned his gaze back out the window.  
  
*  
  
"This is it." Eames unlocked the door to Arthur's apartment and pushed it open.  
  
Arthur eyed him, then pushed past him into the hallway.  
  
Eames watched him as he sauntered down the hall, stuck his head into the kitchen to his immediate right, then wandered on into the living room. His fingers traced the edge of a small cupboard where he kept a spare set of keys in a porcelain bowl. His eyes darted over the colorful art prints on the wall above the couch.  
  
"Your bedroom's through here." Eames pointed the half-open door opposite side of the living room.  
  
Arthur nodded absently. "I live here?" He asked, sounding somewhat incredulous.  
  
"When you're in the States, yes."  
  
"I’ve got more than one place?"  
  
Eames shifted, leaning against the door frame. "The, uhm... we work for an international company. You're got a flat in Paris and one in Sydney."  
  
"Neat." Arthur nodded in appreciation, then pushed part Eames to walk over into the bedroom. There, he plopped down on the bed and bounced on the mattress before he hopped to his feat again. Then, he opened both doors to his closet, peering inside.  
  
"So tell me something," he asked, letting his hand run over the neatly ordered shirts and sweaters. "You are my boyfriend, right? But you're not living here."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
Arthur looked at him, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and anger. "I might not remember who I am but I'm not stupid." He gestured at the content of the closet. "There's only this stuff in here." He plugged at the hem of his own shirt. "And none of yours." He absently gestured up and down Eames' body.  
  
"Well...," Eames drew in a breath, buying time. "We are not exactly... together. We..." Words failed him and he winced inwardly. It shouldn't have been this hard. This was Arthur after all, even though he had no memory of it.  
  
"We're fuck buddies, then," Arthur completed the sentence for him, making the words sound even colder than they needed to be.  
  
"If you want to put it that way..." Eames swallowed, trying to suppress whatever it was that was rising in his chest. He couldn't even deny his relief when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Cobb. "Excuse me. It's... our boss."  
  
He answered the phone and withdrew into the living room.  
  
"How's he doing?" Cobb wanted to know; the crackle in the connection indicated he was on speakerphone.  
  
Eames filled him in on what the doctor had told him. "How did the job go?" he asked then.  
  
"Smooth, all things considering. Have you told him what we do?"  
  
"No." Eames ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling very exhausted. "I don't know what to tell him. The doctor says not to push things, so I told him we work for a sleep lab. Best I could come up with on the fly."  
  
"It'll have to do for now."  
  
"You think what happened in the dream caused the amnesia?"  
  
Cobb huffed out a breath. "Likely. It is a brain trauma after all."  
  
"I'll look into it," Yusuf said in the background.  
  
"Right." Eames sat down on the armrest of the couch. "So what are we going to do now?"  
  
"Well, we're going to wrap up this job. We have a meeting with Saito next week, he's got another job for us," Cobb paused. "Let's hope he remembers by then."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
There was a click on the line and Cobb's voice became clearer. He must have switched off speakerphone. "Eames, can you look after him?"  
  
"Of course." His answer came quicker than he had intended, his mind immediately reeling backwards. "I'll make sure he knows his way around his place."  
  
"Good. Let me know if anything happens." Without waiting for Eames' answer, Cobb hung up.  
  
"So I guess you're my guardian." Arthur stood in the door, hands stuffed into the pockets of his... sweat pants?  
  
Apparently, he had changed into a pair of a black workout pants and a loose-fitted t-shirt. The last time Eames had seen him wearing something like this had been when he had waited for him to return from a run. Even then, Arthur had held himself differently, standing straight up, shoulders pulled back. Now he stood there, slouching, his head tilted to one side.  
  
"Yes, I'm going to make sure you're alright." Eames hesitated. "Stay the night, if you want. In case you... remember."  
  
Arthur shrugged with one shoulder. "Whatever. But don't think you'll be getting any of this." He gestured down his body. Unperturbed, he turned and headed for the kitchen. "Is there any food in his place? I'm starving."  
  
It wasn't the words he said but the way he said them. He couldn't even blame him. Eames knew it wasn't Arthur talking. At least, not exactly.  
  
"Why are you like this?" Eames couldn't help but ask when he followed Arthur into the kitchen.  
  
"Why am I like what?"  
  
"I'm just trying to help you, alright? And you're being... mean." To his own dismay, Eames was painfully aware how much he sounded like a five year old.  
  
With an annoyed grunt, Arthur slammed the refrigerator door shut. "Newsflash. I don't remember who I am. How am I supposed to know _how_ I am?"  
  
He was right and Eames knew it. His shoulders sagged in defiance. "Right. I'm sorry. Guess it is just... strange to look at you without you being..."  
  
"Me?" Arthur cut him off.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Arthur smiled at that, the dimple in his cheek showing. For a second, Eames thought he could see the "old" Arthur again, the one who had lectured them on the case this morning, the one who had been on his knees in front of him last night. But the guy leaning against the fridge now might look like Arthur but he wasn't.  
  
"So, why is there no food in this place?" Arthur broke the silence.  
  
"Well," Eames cleared his throat. "Our job requires a lot of time and rather than having food go bad all the time, you either eat out or grab something on the way. And sometimes you don't eat anything at all."  
  
"Which is why I collapsed."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Arthur pushed himself off the fridge. "Let's get some food then. I'm thinking... pizza. Do I like pizza?"  
  
Eames hesitated for a second. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat any."  
  
"Let's go find out." Arthur pushed past him and headed for the door.  
  
"Wait." Eames held him back. "Like this?" He gestured at his outfit.  
  
Arthur shrugged, sticking his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "Sure. You don't go out for pizza in a monkey suit, do you?"  
  
***  
  
Watching Arthur eat pizza was probably one of the stranger things Eames had seen. It just wasn't... right. Where pizza with cheese in the crust and chorizo on top was messy, Arthur was... not. At least, the Arthur that Eames knew.  
  
"So tell me something about me," Arthur said while chewing on a piece of crust.  
  
Eames wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "First of, you never talk with your mouth full.  
  
With the last bite still in his cheek, Arthur grinned. "Whoops."  
  
Eames choose to ignore yet another uncharacteristic exclamation. "You're... in your late twenties and you're from California. You always take another shot of espresso in your Americano and you never leave the house without a necktie." He knew he was just rattling off random facts that came to mind and he hated how little he could come up with.  
  
"That's it?" Arthur looked at him, eyebrows raised. "For my so-called boyfriend you know very little about me."  
  
Eames tossed the balled up napkin onto his plate. Then, he slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, you're not exactly the sharing type."  
  
Arthur met his gaze with a somewhat bland expression. Then, he just shrugged and wolfed down the rest of his pizza.  
  
*  
  
On the way back to the apartment, Arthur had insisted on stopping by a liquor store to get a six pack of beer, ignoring the doctor's advice not to drink alcohol.  
  
For a good minute, Eames had just stared at him. It wasn't so much the beer part but the image of Arthur... in sweatpants... in a liquor store. Those things just didn't go together. If anything, Eames had always imagined him to go some upscale deli to buy his beverages and not some store with barred windows and a flickering neon sign.  
  
As Eames unlocked the door to the apartment complex, Arthur stopped.  
  
"Which one is mine?" He pointed at the board of a doorbells, scanning the names.  
  
"Third one from the bottom on the left."  
  
Arthur let his finger wander up the board. "There is no name on it." He frowned at the scratched out name sign next to the bell button.  
  
Eames shifted uneasily. "Can we not talk about this out here?"  
  
Arthur looked at him, a mixture of confusion and amusement on his face. "We're not secret agents, are we?"  
  
Eames rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the wrist. "Inside. Now." While he tried his very best to be patient and calm, this Arthur annoyed the hell out of him.  
  
"Oh, bossy." Arthur grinned at him as he tugged him inside. "Do I like that?"  
  
"Shut up," Eames barked at him, shoving him into the living room. While it had been Arthur's idea, he was the first to reach for a beer. After the first swig from the bottle, he let out a long breath, trying to calm down.  
  
"So?" Arthur slumped down on the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "Why don't I have a last name?"  
  
Even while he said them, the words stung on Eames' tongue like venom. "You do but... I don't know it." He paused, washing down the bitter taste with another sip of his beer. "The work we do is not always strictly legal. So we've all assumed false identities. It's safer this way."  
  
"And I never told you my real name?"  
  
"No."  
  
Arthur scoffed. "Some boyfriend I am, huh?"  
  
All the while, he had seemed rather unperturbed by the fact that he had no idea who he was. But now, for the first time since they had left the hospital, he seemed to actually care.  
  
All Eames could do was shrug one shoulder. He finished the first of his beer in one swing.  
  
"Listen," Arthur began after a while. "My headache's coming back, so... I should call it a night."  
  
"Sure."  
  
Arthur rose, shifting uncomfortably from one leg to the other. "How do we do this?"  
  
Eames had expected the question, yet he hated how quick his answer came. "I'll take the couch." He hated Arthur's relieved sigh even more.  
  
*  
  
With a pillow from Arthur's bed and a spare blanket from the closet, Eames made his makeshift bed; there was no way he going to sleep.  
  
Arthur had closed the bedroom door firmly behind as if to make sure Eames wouldn't creep up on him during the night.  
  
Which was, in fact, the very last thing on Eames’ mind.  
  
While Arthur still looked like Arthur, it wasn't him. It was Arthur's voice but he spoke differently. It was Arthur's body but he carried himself differently. Everything about him slightly... off. Wrong. It wasn't his Arthur.  
  
He thought back on all the time he had teased him about being so neat and tidy, about how he always wore a shirt and tie, about how he used words no one but him seemed to use. All these things did annoy him to no end.  
  
And yet, even in these few hours, this somewhat obnoxious version of Arthur annoyed him even more. He was annoyed by the way he slurred his words. He was annoyed by that stupid pair of sweatpants. Mostly, he was annoyed by how little Arthur seemed to care about it all.  
  
Old!Arthur would have asked countless questions, would have pried and probed for any information available. New!Arthur however just shrugged it all off like losing part of his memory was the most common thing in the world.  
  
Eames wanted old!Arthur back.  
  
*  
  
Eames woke up, fully clothed, after only a few hours of uncomfortable sleep. He rose slowly, muscles in his back creaking audibly.  
  
The door to Arthur's bedroom was still closed and he could hear him snore.  
  
Taking the chance, Eames went to take a leak, then headed out to get some breakfast. On the way back from the coffee shop, Cobb had called him, checking in to see how Arthur was doing.  
  
In brief terms, he told him what had happened last night, deliberately leaving out the details that weren't Cobb's business.  
  
"Are you going to bring him in?"  
  
"He's not a car that needs to go to the shop," Eames snapped at him. Running a hand over his face, he tried to calmed down. "He wasn't up when I left. Maybe he remembers."  
  
"Let's hope he does. Call me."  
  
"Yeah." Eames flipped his cell phone shut just as he unlocked the door to the apartment. "Arthur?"  
  
"Yes," Arthur answered from the bedroom, his voice sounding gruff. "Would you come in here for a second?"  
  
The bedroom was a mess. Even more of a mess than they had ever made of it.  
  
Arthur had pulled off the comforter; the bed was littered with all sort of papers, files and folders. Amidst it all sat Arthur, one of the outdated PASIV suitcases in front of him.  
  
"What is all this?" he gestured at the paperwork.  
  
"Where did you find it?" Eames asked, the words hitching in his throat.  
  
"The wardrobe has a second back wall. Found it when I wanted to get dressed." Arthur pronounced the next few words very carefully, just like the old Arthur would have. "What. Is. This?"  
  
Eames swallowed. It shouldn't be this hard to come up with a lie, with a good cover story that would explain it all. But he was used to Arthur having all the answers instead of asking the questions. "That's our work."  
  
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "These are dossiers about people." He held up one particularly thick folder. "There are surveillance photos and detailed reports on what they do. Financial reports, criminal records." He rummaged through some of the files he'd strewn over the mattress. "What kind of work do we do exactly?"  
  
At first, Eames wanted to tell him to keep his voice down. His walls weren't the thickest; they had come to know that when an enraged neighbor had started knocking on the other side. But he knew there was no use for it now. Arthur requested answers and he had every right to.  
  
Eames closed the bedroom door behind them, as though that would add to their secrecy. With an exhausted sigh, he leaned against the dressing table. "We share dreams." At Arthur's incredulous look, he added. "Do you know what that means?"  
  
"Dream-sharing? That secret military project? That's just a myth... like Area 51."  
  
"I'm afraid it's not."  
  
Arthur dropped the files back on the pile, running a hand through his hair. "So... we work for the military."  
  
"No." Eames drew in a breath. "We're criminals. In 127 countries, at least."  
  
He had expected Arthur to be outraged but he wasn't. Instead, he just stared at him in utter disbelief. "That's why I can't remember." It wasn't a question.  
  
"You were shot in a dream. But the bullet didn't kill you and you didn't wake up. I had to shoot you and when you came to, you couldn't remember who you were." Eames knew this was no where near the answer Arthur was looking for, it wasn't even a nutshell full of what had happened.  
  
"You shot me?" Arthur's voice sounded hollow and very quiet. Fear glittered in his eyes.  
  
"In the dream, yes." Eames was startled that his voice sounded exactly the same.  
  
"I want to know everything."  
  
*  
  
It was ironic that it was Ariadne who explained it all to Arthur.  
  
They had met up at the loft they had rented for this job and now she was drawing up flip charts with circles and arrows while Eames was talking to Yusuf.  
  
"I did some research. I believe the memory loss is only temporary," Yusuf said, then took a sip from his tea.  
  
"Yeah?" Eames didn't look at him but watched Arthur as he watched Ariadne. If he were truly honest with himself, it hurt that he hadn't been able to properly explain all of this to Arthur. He had tried, but then, Arthur had always known more about the technical aspects of it all.  
  
And he hated how lost Arthur looked as he tried to the young woman's speech. He tried to hide it but Eames could see the confusion in Arthur’s eyes.  
  
"Eames? Are you even listening to me?" Yusuf touched his arm and he flinched, almost spilling his own tea.  
  
"Sorry. I wasn't..."  
  
"Yeah, I noticed. I also noticed the way look at him." He nodded in Arthur's direction.  
  
Eames cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders and turned, pointedly focusing on Yusuf. "So what caused the memory loss then?"  
  
Yusuf couldn't keep a small smile off his face. "Well, I'm no physician and there is no text book on this." He poured himself some more tea. "As you know, pain happens mostly in the brain. I believe that the bullet Arthur took to the head caused him such severe pain in the dream that his brain, and more specifically his subconscious, just... shut down. It's kind of a self-preserving mechanism, much like an actual physical or emotional trauma that causes amnesia. I can't tell for certain, but I believe his brain should sort itself out in a couple of days."  
  
Eames heaved a sigh. "I hope you're right."  
  
Again, Yusuf smiled knowingly. "I take it you two don't get along very well." Hiding his smirk around the rim of his cup, he added, "Even less than usual."  
  
Eames chose to ignore the innuendo. "Let's just hope you're right. Because that Arthur is kind of a brat." He put down his cup, patting his jacket pockets until he found a half-empty pack of cigarettes. "I'll be upstairs." With that, he headed for the stairwell leading up to the roof.  
  
*  
  
"So you can be other people."  
  
Arthur's voice behind him startled him and Eames dropped his third cigarette over the edge of the roof. He turned to find the young man leaning against the door to the stairwell, hands stashed deep into his pockets.  
  
"Among other things, yes," Eames nodded.  
  
Without further ado, Arthur asked what Eames had suspected him to ask. "Can you be me?"  
  
"Theoretically."  
  
"You can show me... how I am? Who I am?" Arthur pressed on.  
  
"I suppose Ariadne told you about the danger of creating something from memory."  
  
"So you can but you won't?"  
  
Eames shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "I can, yes. But if I did impersonate you... the _other_ you in the dream, you have to understand that it's not who you really are. That's just you the way I see you, the way I remember you. I can mimic you but it's all just perception."  
  
Arthur seemed to think about that for a moment before he continued. "You can help me remember. As insane as this all is to me, you've got to help me. Please."  
  
Eames looked at him, spotting the desperation in his eyes, and he knew there was nothing he could do to convince him that this was a bad idea.  
  
It was a bad idea, but it wasn't as if Eames hadn't thought about it as well last night. It was a possibility, sure, but it was also dangerous.  
  
With few exceptions (the Fischer job being one of them), his other impersonations weren't real people. He drew his inspiration from someone he would meet on a subway somewhere, some picture up on a billboard or in a someone who brushes up to him in a bar. But he was always just one sliver of whoever he was going to be in a dream. He'd take a smile, a gesture or the sound of their voice.  
  
Conjuring up a real person from memory was always dangerous, for him and the integrity of the case. He had to get it absolutely right, endangering his sanity on the way.  
  
And this was Arthur they were talking about, and right now, his subconscious was already in a rather unstable state. Which was the rational reason why Eames didn't want to do it.  
  
"Alright," he said finally, throwing his hands up in defeat.  
  
Arthur's shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you."  
  
Pushing past him for the door, Eames scoffed. "Thank me later."  
  
*  
  
They were in Arthur's dream and it was shaky, to say the least. Maybe they should have taken Ariadne with them into the dream, to create a proper place for this. But an audience was the last thing Eames needed for this.  
  
The landscape around them flickered as if displayed from an old movie projector until it settled on the inside of an apartment.  
  
"What is this place?" Arthur asked, turning to look around.  
  
"This is your apartment in Paris. We're just a few block away from Sacre Coeur," Eames replied, pushing the drapes aside to look out the window.  
  
"How... how do I know what this place looks like?"  
  
"I suppose it's a memory."  
  
Arthur's eyebrows went up as he traced a hand of the fabric of the couch. "A memory I don't remember."  
  
Eames shrugged. "Mysteries of the brain."  
  
"This is surreal." Arthur wandered over into the open kitchen, eyes darting over the high-end equipment he barely even used. "So how do we do this?"  
  
"You don't do anything." Eames hadn't meant to sound so harsh but he couldn't help it. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.  
  
He turned away from Arthur to catch his own reflection in the window. He closed his eyes, concentrating.  
  
Shape-shifting within the dream didn't feel like anything. Maybe his dream-self was a little light-headed for a second but that was it. It just happened.  
  
He shrank by the fraction of an inch and his broad frame morphed into Arthur's slender shoulders. His hair turned from dark blonde to almost black, his eyes from blue-grey to dark brown. His checkered shirt gave way to pinstripes, neatly tucked into his slacks.  
  
Eames had a hand over his... Arthur's hair, smoothing it back into that immaculate hairstyle he was always tempted to mess up.  
  
When he turned around, the actual Arthur stared at him with something bordering on horror.  
  
"This is it." Getting someone's voice right was always the hardest part. The visual components were easy but getting someone's accent and tone just right required a particularly wide stretch of imagination.  
  
Arthur staggered backwards until he bumped into the refrigerator. "That's..." Slowly, he rounded the kitchen counter and approached his forged twin much like someone would creep up to a dangerous animal.  
  
Eames met him halfway, hands stashed into his pockets, imitating Arthur's usual saunter to a T.  
  
Real Arthur raised a hand to touch Eames' cheek but the other pulled back. "No touching."  
  
Arthur frowned at him. "Are you... falling apart when I touch you?"  
  
Eames scoffed but it was Arthur's voice that made the sound. "No, but I don't want you to touch me." That was a line he had heard so many time that he could imitate it even in real life.  
  
"Right. Sorry."  
  
Eames waved a hand, all condescension. "So, do you remember any of this?"  
  
Arthur studied him, studied himself, for a good minute. "No."  
  
Eames let Arthur's shoulders sag. "Thought so." He caught himself absently tugging on the tip of his plain black tie. "We're going to need a little more... specificity then." He felt his... Arthur's lips curl around the word but the smile was gone within a second.  
  
What he was about to do was probably even more dangerous than impersonating Arthur.  
  
Letting out a long breath, Eames shook Arthur's image off him as if shedding a coat. Withing the fraction of a second, he was himself again.  
  
Arthur stepped back from him, startled. "You couldn't have warned me, could you?"  
  
Eames ignored him. Instead he tried to focus, tried to reach for one particular memory. It wasn't an overly pleasant one, but right now he didn't see any other way. What he was trying to do was tricky, trickier than any forgery could possibly be.  
  
"Arthur, I need you shut up now. You think you can do that?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
Eames rolled his eyes. "Because I said so. "  
  
"Alright." The young man nodded uneasily but otherwise remained quiet, even as Eames pushed him down on the sofa.  
  
Even as the door to the apartment opened and Arthur came in. Followed by Eames.  
  
They were both dressed in different, lighter clothes as if it were warm outside. Arthur dropped a set of keys on the kitchen counter, then opened the fridge to reach for a bottle of water.  
  
"So that's just going to be it? Cobb calls and off you go," Eames asked, slamming the door close behind him.  
  
"I work for him," Arthur's answer was simple. "Besides, what did you expect? You and I weren't even supposed to meet here."  
  
"No, but excuse me for enjoying this crazy, random happenstance of your one-day layover and me bumping into you at that cafe."  
  
Arthur looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Crazy, random happenstance? Seriously, Eames, you are watching far too much TV on your time off."  
  
"It's a web series, thank you very much. The point, however, still remains the same."  
  
"What point exactly?" Arthur all but snapped at him.  
  
"That I would have enjoyed spending some time with you."  
  
Arthur's shoulders sagged and he rolled his eyes, annoyed. "My plane would have left in ten hours anyway."  
  
Eames breached the gap between them. "Exactly. And you rescheduled for an earlier flight the second you got the call from Cobb. I thought we could have..." He wriggled his eyebrows.  
  
Arthur pushed him away. "As much fun as that sounds, I've got a job to do."  
  
Now it was Eames' turn to roll his eyes. "Right, I forgot. I'm just the fun hobby, am I not? Your guilty little pleasure you indulge in whenever you see fit."  
  
Arthur shook his head, more in frustration than in denial. "We're not together." The statement is simple yet it makes Eames cringe.  
  
"No." Eames backed away from him. "I realize that by the fact that I don't get to call whenever I please and you'll come a-running."  
  
Arthur's face twists briefly with remorse. "Eames..."  
  
A coarse gesture from the other man cut him off. "No, Arthur. You don't need to explain. I get it." He opened the door. "I’ll see you when I see you." Then he left.  
  
Arthur remained, leaning against the kitchen counter. And then he turned towards them.  
  
The Arthur on the couch, the real Arthur and not the projection they had been watching, looked up at Eames. "Why is he looking at me like that?"  
  
Eames grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. "Because he's not real. He's a projection of my subconscious," he explained as they slowly backed away from a very angry looking Arthur-projection. "What you just saw happened here about a year ago. It's one of my memories. But I left the scene now and I have no idea what you did after I was gone, so I can't control those projections anymore. We've got to get out of here."  
  
"Why?"  
  
They had already rounded the couch and slowly tried to back their way to the apartment door. "Because my subconscious is not very happy with you right now."  
  
But it was already too late.  
  
The projection of Arthur reached around and pulled a handgun out of nowhere, aiming at the real Arthur. Within a split-second, he had fired two shots, one hitting Arthur in the chest, the other went right between his eyes. He was gone before he hit the ground.  
  
*  
  
Eames came to a minute after when the time on the clock had run out. Both Ariadne and Yusuf were at Arthur's side, who had thrown up on himself.  
  
"What happened?" Ariadne asked as he unhooked himself from the PASIV.  
  
"My projection of him shot him," Eames replied, his tone clipped.  
  
"He was shot twice within the span of 24 hours?" Yusuf looked at him, incredulously. "That's some luck."  
  
"How's he doing?" Eames ignored his friend's comment.  
  
"Fine, as far as I can tell," Ariadne replied, running a hand over Arthur's arm who was still hunched over, head between his knees. "I got stabbed by Mal in my second dream. That wasn't so pleasant either."  
  
Eames nodded absently. He ran his hands over his hair, trying to reel in his racing mind. Then he turned to Yusuf. "Can you take him back to his place? I need some air."  
  
Yusuf nodded. "Of course." He paused for a moment. "Eames, are you alright?"  
  
He shrugged with one shoulder. "Sure."  
  
*  
  
Eames was sitting on the stairs leading up to the front door of Arthur's apartment building, rolling a half-smoked cigarette between his finger tips, when Yusuf's rental pulled up to the curb.  
  
Arthur had changed, now wearing one of Yusuf's loosely fitted shirts. He got out of the car, stuffing his hands into his pant pockets as he shuffled over to sit at Eames' side.  
  
"How are you?" Eames asked, crushing the cigarette beneath the tip of his boot.  
  
"Alright, I guess." Arthur tapped his index finger against his temple. "Apart from the memory loss, that is."  
  
Eames shrugged. "I told you it was a bad idea."  
  
A wry smile curled the corner of Arthur's mouth. "Yeah, but you didn't tell me why."  
  
They sat in silence for a while, watching the cars roll by and an old lady with a Yorkie on the other side of the street.  
  
Arthur cleared his throat. "You love him... the other me." It wasn't a question.  
  
This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to take Arthur into the dream. This was what he had been afraid of when he recalled the memory of their fight in Paris. Things like this, which they would never talk about if Arthur was Arthur.  
  
"Yes," Eames replied, simply.  
  
"Does he know?"  
  
He felt Arthur's eyes on him but he couldn't look at him. Instead, he shrugged. "He's not stupid but... he prefers to be rather... oblivious about it."  
  
"And... does he love you?"  
  
Something inside Eames' chest tightened and he drew in a shaky breath. "I don't know. If he does...," his words trailed off.  
  
"Let me guess," Arthur finished for him. "He never told you."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Arthur nodded as if taking a mental note of that fact. "What is it that you love about him?"  
  
Now, Eames did look at him. It wasn't so much the question but the way Arthur had asked it, straight out and almost blunt.  
  
Arthur spread his hand in front of him. "I'm just curious. He seemed so distant... cold. I just don't see it, you know."  
  
Eames smiled at that. It was a sad, almost rueful smile. "It's the things you don't see," he said, cringing inwardly at how sentimental he sounded.  
  
"Can you explain it to me?"  
  
On some insanely stubborn notion, Eames had once sworn to himself never to talk about things like this. If Arthur wasn't willing and/or able to talk about their not-a-relationship, then he wasn't going to do it either. He wouldn't be the first to break. And yet, here he was...  
  
"It's the way you chew on your Bic pen when you're doing research," he began, gaze drifting away from Arthur and out onto the street again. "Or that triumphant grin when you finally find the right angle on a mark. The way you sometimes smile at me when no one is looking." He drew in a shaky breath, fighting down the burn in his eyes and chest. "And sometimes, when we sleep together, you come and your mouth falls open just a bit and you whisper my name... and then you look at me as though I'm the only person in your world."  
  
Those last words just spilled from Eames' mouth with no chance of stopping them. He only noticed the tear on his cheek when brushed it away with the back of his hand.  
  
Two days ago, they had been working on just another job. Maybe they would have gone for a drink or dinner afterwards. And most definitely, they would have ended up in bed together. By now, with the job done, they would be on the separate ways again until work or desire made them cross paths again.  
  
And now... now Arthur didn't know who he was and Eames was pouring his heart for the very same reason. If Arthur had been Arthur, none of these words would have ever come across his lips. And only now that it was out, Eames realized that if Arthur did regain his memory, he would remember this, too.  
  
"I'm sorry." Arthur's voice tore him out of his reverie. His tone was quiet, sincere, almost like the "real" Arthur. "For all it's worth... I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't." Eames help up a hand to stop him from talking. "Don't apologize to me."  
  
Again, silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and deafening.  
  
"Why did you show me that memory?" Arthur asked after a while. "Why didn't you show me something... nice?"  
  
Eames shook his head. "It's not that easy." He ran a hand over his face. "I can't just mix and match. Your brain provided the location and mine picked the memory."  
  
"Right. I'm still not getting it all." Arthur smiled apologetically.  
  
"It's alright." Eames looked at him, trying to match his smile but didn't quite feel it. He felt entirely too vulnerable right now for an honest smile.  
  
Arthur's lips were on his before he realized what was happening. Out of reflex, he almost kissed back but then, his brain kicked in and he pulled back, rising to his feet.  
  
"What the hell are you doing?" He brushed the back of his hand over his mouth as if to wipe off a bad taste. Everything about this kiss felt wrong. He stared at Arthur in disbelief.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't... I thought you'd want...," words failed Arthur.  
  
"Not like this. Not with...," Eames paused, pinching the bridge of his nose to fight down the mixture of anger and confusion. "You don't get it, do you? You... you look like him and you talk like him but... you're not. You're not him." He ignored the little lady had returned from walking her Yorkie and was looking at them from the other side of the street. "And even if he never comes around, even if this is all that it's ever going to be...," he paused to steady his voice. "I want him back."  
  
*  
  
The night after his big dramatic speech, Eames got wasted. He had left in a hurry, hitting the next best liquor store and holed himself in at his apartment.  
  
After the third call from Arthur, he had switched off his cell phone. He was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.  
  
Of course, he wasn't to blame. It wasn't his fault that, for some irrational reason, Eames had poured his heart out to him. He could have served him with some monosyllabic answer and things would remained the way they were.  
  
But no, he had to go all out. He had to confess his feelings. He had to... elaborate.  
  
In retrospect, it should have been Ariadne or Yusuf or even Cobb to take Arthur to hospital. He should have stayed out of this, he should have known that nothing good could have come from this. But instead of being as cool and rational as Arthur would have been, his fear and concern for him had taken the better of him.  
  
And now he had to deal with the consequences. He had to deal with either a) an Arthur who didn't remember who he was and who now knew Eames loved his old self, or b) an Arthur who did remember who he was and now knew that Eames loved him.  
  
He couldn't decide which one would be worse.  
  
*  
  
Over the next five days, Eames tried to stay away from the team as much as he could. They talked briefly on the phone, or he would swing by the loft to get the latest information about the new job Saito had for them.  
  
On one occasion, Arthur had been there as well, talking to Yusuf. To say their meeting was awkward would have been an understatement.  
  
What surprised him even more than the sting in chest was how much Arthur did not look like Arthur any more.  
  
His hair was unkempt, hanging into forehead or sticking up in all directions. He hadn't shaved for days, sporting more facial hair than he had ever seen on him. He was slouching even more, hands stashed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched. While he was still wearing the same clothes, the slacks rode low on his hips, his shirt was wrinkled and out of the waistband. He didn't look bad, just... wrong.  
  
On the sixth day, Yusuf had called him, letting him know he wanted to hypnotize Arthur, maybe that would help him jog his memory. And he wanted Eames there.  
  
Eames had ignored the knowing undertone in his friend's voice, trying not to think too hard about what Arthur may and may not have told him about their conversation.  
  
So he got into his car and drove over to Arthur's place.  
  
The apartment was a mess.  
  
Right next to the door was a carefully stacked pile of pizza cartons, Chinese take-out boxes and paper bags from various fast food chains. Besides that sat a crate of beer, half of it empty. Newspapers littered the side table where Arthur used to keep his keys.  
  
"Arthur?" Eames called into the apartment as he made his way through the trash.  
  
"Yep," the other called back from the living room. "Come on in."  
  
Arthur sat on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, yet another pizza box next to him. As Eames entered the room, he wolfed down the last of his slice.  
  
"Hey," he said around a bite of crust, raising a hand.  
  
Eames could only stare at him. This was just plain wrong. Arthur and this much trash should not be in the same room together. In fact, even if he added up all the trash he had ever seen him toss out, it would still come up short in comparison to this.  
  
"What the hell?" was all he could come up with, trying to ignore the stale smell of kung-pao chicken gone bad.  
  
"What? You got problems with my housekeeping?"  
  
Eames scoffed. "What housekeeping?" He kicked aimlessly at a shirt Arthur had dropped on the floor. "If your... alter ego would see this, he'd have a stroke."  
  
Arthur hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, glowering at him. "Well, as you said yourself... I'm not him."  
  
Eames bit back a comment, inhaling deeply through his nose. "Right. About that... Yusuf wants to hypnotize you, see if that helps."  
  
"Yeah, I know. He just called. I told him no."  
  
Eames mouth fell open. "You... what?"  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes at him. "I. Told him. No." He pronounced every word very carefully, his voice clipped and cold. "I don't want him to hypnotize me."  
  
A series of elusive courses sprang to Eames' mind but he choose to take another deep breath. "So you won't even try to regain your memory? This is just going to be it?"  
  
Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously, a look Eames was used to from when a case was about to go south. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe... just maybe, I don't want to remember?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"This entire week, all you tell me is that you want me to remember who I was. How much you want this other me back. But not for a second have you considered that I might not want remember who I was." Arthur rose from the couch and wiped his hand on his thigh, leaving a grease stain on the fabric.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Arthur snorted indelicately. "Why? Why should I remember?" He spread his arms. "I have the world's most insane job. I am a criminal. I have no family. I don't have a full name. There is not a personal item in his entire apartment. I don't even have a plant." When his voice got a slightly hysterical pitch, he paused, letting out a breath. "This guy you showed me in the dream... the guy I'm supposed to be... he's a cold-hearted bitch who doesn't give a fuck about you. Why would you want me to be that?"  
  
He paused as if leaving room for Eames to answer but he didn't have an answer. Words hardly ever failed him but Arthur's words had knocked them out of him.  
  
"There is _nothing_ in that life that is worth remembering."  
  
Sucker punch.  
  
And they both knew it.  
  
The seconds the words had left Arthur's mouth, he clamped a hand over his lips as if that would take them back.  
  
"I'm... I'm sorry," he started. "I didn't mean..."  
  
Eames held up a hand to cut him off. "Yeah, you did." He swallowed hard and stepped back from him. Suddenly, the room felt entirely too small for the both of them. A sad little laugh bubbled up from his throat. "And I can't even be mad at you... 'cause you're right." He smoothed a hand over his hair. "I gotta go."  
  
He already had his hand on the door handle when he froze. Now that the words had fully sunken in, white hot anger burned its way up his throat. He turned on his heel and stalked back into the living-room.  
  
"You know what?" Eames all but barked at Arthur who hadn't moved an inch. "Scratch that. I am bloody mad at you. Because sometimes it's so exhausting to be in love with you."  
  
This time, he didn't even shy away from the words.  
  
"Don't you think that it hurts me that I can't answer any of your questions? I want to be able to tell you your full name or your birthday or your favorite color. But I don't know any of these things. Because _you_..." he stabbed a finger at Arthur, "never told me." Eames threw his hands up in defiance. "You know what? I can't do this. I thought I could help you but... I can't." He backed away from Arthur, who just kept staring at him. "If you need anything, the team's numbers are on the fridge. I've... I need to go."  
  
It wasn't until he had driven four blocks that his heart stopped racing and anger gave way to more tears than he had ever shed over anything or anybody in his entire life.  
  
*  
  
As if Eames' mood was somehow connected to the weather, it had started raining that evening and didn't stop for the next four days.  
  
Cobb had called him after he hadn't showed up for their meeting. The job had been postponed until further notice due to their lack of... Arthur.  
  
Eames hadn't been able to tell what Cobb was more aggravated about: that they were about to loose the job, that he hadn't showed up for work or that Arthur still couldn't remember. He could practically hear him squint through the phone when he told him that Arthur had chosen not to actively try to regain his memory. Without saying it, he had blamed Eames for it and Eames had told him where he could stick it.  
  
After that, Eames had ordered a pizza and had gotten royally drunk.  
  
By the late afternoon of the fourth day, his apartment strangely resembled Arthur's, with take-out boxes, clothes and empty bottles littered everywhere.  
  
While he tried to keep his mind busy, watching documentaries and re-runs of CSI on TV, his thoughts still kept wandering back to Arthur, to their fight, and to the stunned expression on his face.  
  
Of course, they had fought before. They had fought in Paris, in Sidney and while hurrying through the favelas of Brasilia. They had fought about nothing at all, about some annoying habit the other possessed or, like in Paris, about the status of their supposed relationship. And while the fight might result in them splitting for several months (the job did come in handy at times), in the end things would be alright. They would go back to normal, to their banter and bickering, to their secret dates, stolen moments and endless shags.  
  
It had been simple like that. Easy.  
  
This fight, though, was neither simple nor easy. They weren't even together and yet it felt like an ending.  
  
For one, it was the end of them dodging the inevitable conversation about their... "situation".  
  
And second, it was probably the end of that "situation".  
  
Eames had no idea how Arthur would react if he did regain his memory. Some part of him knew he would withdraw entirely from him, he'd end whatever it was they had, they probably would even stop working together.  
  
And yet, some part of him held on to that tiny flicker of hope that maybe his words meant something to Arthur, the real Arthur and not this hollowed-out version.  
  
*  
  
On the fourth day, Eames' cellphone rang. It was buried beneath a pile of discarded clothes, and by the time he found it, he was mildly aggravated.  
  
"What?" he barked into it.  
  
"It's me," Arthur said, sounded slightly startled. "Is this a bad time?"  
  
For a couple of seconds, Eames didn't reply. "No," he said then, when his heart had stopped its leaping.  
  
"Cobb gave me your number," Arthur explained. "Can I talk to you?"  
  
Eames sounded entirely too eager when he asked, "What's up?"  
  
"Can we... can I see you?"  
  
With their previous conversation still lingering in the back of his mind, Eames wanted to say no. He didn't want to confront Arthur again, and even more so, he didn't want to confront his feelings for him.  
  
"Where?" he finally asked, only barely keeping a sigh from his voice.  
  
"Is there... is there a place we used to go to?"  
  
"Not in particular." Eames mused over it for a moment, thinking back to the rare occasions they had actually gone out together. "There's a coffee place a couple of blocks down from your place. See you there in an hour?"  
  
"Great." Arthur paused. "Thanks." Then he hung up.  
  
*  
  
Arthur sat on a stool in the window of the coffee shop, looking out on the street. Eames spotted him right away but choose to order his coffee first before sitting down next to him, carefully keeping his distance.  
  
"What did you want to talk about?" he asked after taking the first sip from his café mocha.  
  
Arthur's hands clenched around his half-empty mug. "I... I just want to let you know that... we tried the hypnosis."  
  
Eames' eyebrows went up but he remained quiet. This, he hadn't expected.  
  
"I'm still... not him." A wry smile curled the corner of Arthur's mouth. "But I think Yusuf may or may not have tried to turn me into a chicken while he was at it."  
  
Eames couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, he might have."  
  
"There are things that... I don't remember them but... some things start feeling familiar."  
  
The breath hitched in Eames' throat. "Such as?"  
  
Arthur shrugged. "Such as this place, for example."  
  
"That's because it's a multi-national franchise."  
  
"That's not... there's something about a place like this that..." He waved a hand in a vague gesture. "I can't describe it. It's like I'm seeing things in the corner of my eye but it's gone when I try to focus on it."  
  
Eames remained quiet for a moment, trying to figure out if he should speak or not. "We had our first... fight at a place like this in Vienna." He smiled a smile he didn't quite feel. Arthur's curious gaze weighed entirely too heavy on him. "It was after our first job together. I dumped my coffee on you."  
  
"What? On purpose?"  
  
This time, he felt the smile. "Yes."  
  
"What for? Was that a move?"  
  
"No, I just wanted to get a reaction out of you."  
  
Arthur's eyebrow almost met his hairline. "So you gave me second degree burns just for kicks?"  
  
Eames shook his head. "The job we worked went to shit right after we brought the mark in. Everybody started yelling at you, blamed you for not doing all the research. But you just stood there, completely... stoic."  
  
"That still doesn't explain the coffee attack."  
  
"The work you did was immaculate," Eames continued, ignoring the comment. "The best I'd seen in a long time. But I knew that if we kept working together, I had to get a better read on you. I had to know that I was dealing with."  
  
"How did I react?"  
  
"You look a swing at me. Of course, back then you still hit like a girl."  
  
Arthur laughed at that, that familiar dimple showing in his cheek.  
  
They sat in silence for a while, nursing their beverages.  
  
"So how did we..." Arthur gestured back and forth between them.  
  
"It was your idea, actually."  
  
At that answer, Arthur all but snorted his coffee at him. "What?"  
  
"Well, technically, at least. We went for drinks after a job, got rather pissed and you came on to me. And before you ask, no, I did not take advantage of you."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Now it was Eames' turn to fight to keep the coffee in. "I'm a crook but I'm not that much of a crook. Besides, where'd be the fun in that? I like the challenge."  
  
"So I'm a challenge?" Arthur looked at him with the strangest expression, on odd mixture of curiosity and something else.  
  
"Every day," Eames replied with a shrug, then turned away from him, focusing on the rain splattering against the window.  
  
An awkward silence stretched between them.  
  
"You could have told me I was your boyfriend. You could have told me... all sorts of things about this. About us. Why did you tell me the truth?" Arthur asked then, gaze focused intently on him.  
  
Eames hesitated for a long moment, following some random raindrop with his eyes. The answer was so simple, mundane even, that he had trouble explaining it.  
  
"If you remember, than you'll know I lied to you. And if you don't remember... I’ll know.”  
  
He words trailed off and he shook his head, finger tracing the rim of his now empty cup. He flinched when Arthur's hand closed over his. He wanted to pull back but Arthur held on to him.  
  
"Thank you." The words were simple enough and yet, Arthur said them with such sincerity that the breath hitched in Eames' throat.  
  
"Don't mention it." His voice joined hollow as he stared down at their joined hands, a sight rather unfamiliar.  
  
"No, I mean it." Arthur's fingers closed down hard on his. "You've put up with so much these last couple of days. And before that. It really means..."  
  
"Stop it." The harsh tone of his own voice made Eames flinch. Finally, he managed to disentangle his hand from Arthur's grip. He could still feel the warmth of his fingers lingering against his skin and he had to remind himself that this was not Arthur.  
  
Again silence fell. Again it was Arthur who spoke first.  
  
"What if I do remember? Have you thought of that?"  
  
Eames scoffed. "All the time."  
  
"With... with all the things you said... about you and me, about... how you feel, what do you think will happen?"  
  
Eames turned on his stool to look at him, eyebrows raised. "What do you want me to say?" he asked, incredulously. "How will there ever be a right answer to that question?"  
  
"I know." Arthur looked away from him, past him and out the window.  
  
"I can't and won't tell you what to do." While he spoke, he watched Arthur. He watched how his jaw clenched, once more making him look more like stubborn teenager than a well-educated and overly competent professional. "You've got to... make up your own mind about it."  
  
Arthur nodded but didn't look at him. His eyes were glistening.  
  
"I should go," Eames said, slipping off his stool. "I can't... I can't help you."  
  
"But you'd... want him back?" Arthur's voice was very quiet, his gaze still fixed on the window.  
  
Eames looked at him, at his reflection in the window so that their eyes would meet. He didn't reply before he buttoned his jacket and left the coffee shop.  
  
*  
  
It was still raining when Eames decided that at least some of the trash had to go. This was getting ridiculous. He couldn't just sit in his apartment all day, wallowing. That wouldn't change anything.  
  
He took shelter under one of the pizza boxes on his way to the trash can, then hurried back to the front door before he was completely soaked.  
  
"Eames."  
  
He stopped dead just as he was about to close the door behind him. His heart skipped a beat and it took him the full length of three deep breaths to turn around.  
  
"Arthur?"  
  
The other didn't even need to nod. He was clean-shaven now, his shirt tucked neatly into his waistband and plastered to this chest. He had his hands stashed deep into his pockets and strands of his hair dangled in his face.  
  
Eames could see it in his eyes, in the way he held himself.  
  
That, and the fact that only Arthur, his Arthur, knew where he lived.  
  
"Since when?"  
  
Slowly, Arthur walked up to his front step. His face was slightly flushed as if he'd been running, eyes red and bloodshot. Eames almost believed he saw tears on his cheeks but the rain hid them.  
  
"That night before we met at the coffee place," Arthur replied. "I dreamt about you."  
  
Eames swallowed, trying to process the information. "You bastard." Anger lashed up inside him, thinking back to their meeting, back to the things they had talked about.  
  
"I know." Arthur nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you but... I had to be sure."  
  
For a second Eames wanted to ask what it was that he needed to be sure about, but then it dawned on him. And he understood. His anger evaporated. "Do you want to come in?"  
  
Arthur shook his head. "No, I... I need you to...," he paused, then took a deep breath. His exhale was a nervous stutter. He drew back his shoulders as if steeling himself for an attack.  
  
"My full name is Michael Arthur McKenna. I was born on April 17, 1981 in Los Angeles, California. And my favorite color is green. Not apple candy green but a dark, woodsy green. And I love the way your fingers brush mine when no one is looking. And how you put your hand on my shoulder when we're working late and you completely ignore how many times I tell you it's inappropriate. And how you put up with all my shit and still smile at me from across the room like I'm the only one in your world."  
  
He drew in another shaky breath.  
  
"And I know I'm in no place to ask this but... will you give me a second chance?"  
  
Eames stared at him. It was the only thing he could do besides clawing his fingers into the door frame. He could feel his heart beat all the way up to this throat, blood rushing in his ears.  
  
He didn't notice he had been staring at Arthur for almost two minutes when the young man nodded a jerky little nod.  
  
"Right." Arthur's voice was very quiet now, almost inaudible in the rain. "I'm... I'm sorry." He took a step back. "I should..." With his hand still in his pocket he gestured down the road, then turned and headed into that direction.  
  
He had already made it halfway down to the intersection, when Eames finally snapped out of his daze. He stepped out into the street, shielding his eyes from the rain.  
  
"William!"  
  
Arthur stopped, facing him. Even in the distance Eames could see he had his eyebrows raised in question.  
  
Eames shrugged, throwing his hands up. "That's my name. William."  
  
Arthur's mouth opened, then closed again. He took a few steps toward him, breaching the distance between them.  
  
"You don't need a second chance, Arthur. In case you haven't noticed by now," Eames began, knowing that, yet again, with every word he would step on thinner ice. "I couldn't stop loving you even if I tried. And believe me, I have tried. No matter how far you'll try to push me away..." He let his words trail off and shook his head, shrugging.  
  
"What if there was no pushing away anymore?" Arthur asked, now only a couple of feet away from him. "What if there was... say, an empty drawer in my dresser for you?"  
  
"Well, in that case, you'll get yourself a whole lot of lovin'."  
  
Arthur laughed at that.  
  
"So can we please go inside now?" Eames gestured back to the house. "'cause as charming as this whole Bollywood thing is that we have here, I don't fancy getting pneumonia just because you're a dickhead."  
  
They breached the rest of the distance, meeting halfway, drenched clothes brushing against each other.  
  
Arthur leaned his forehead against Eames', his breath the only thing warm on him right now. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry."  
  
Eames' hand crept underneath Arthur's jacket, finding a little warmth in the small of his back. "I told you not to apologize to me."  
  
"I know." Arthur looked at him and now he knew for sure he was crying. "But... it's important to me."  
  
Gently, Eames pushed him away, running a hand over his dripping-wet hair, smoothing it out of his face. "Let me try something first."  
  
And then he kissed him, out in the open and for the world to see, hoping that it was answer enough.


End file.
